


Companion Planting

by Fw00sh



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon), Prototype (Video Games)
Genre: Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Mystery, Pottsfield
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2019-05-03 04:42:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14561115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fw00sh/pseuds/Fw00sh
Summary: Alex Mercer is lost. When the first town he runs into in the strange wood ropes him into community service he goes along with it, hoping just to get some idea of what’s going on. But the Unknown is an odd place indeed, and it isn't just unfamiliar horrors waiting in the darkness.





	1. Germination

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Patient is the Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3139979) by [IncurableNecromantic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/pseuds/IncurableNecromantic). 



> A ton of inspiration and various Pottsfielders come from IncurableNecromantic's fantastic OtGW fics. This was originally on FFN but since I've started making progress on the second chapter again I figured it was time to crosspost it. Tags will update with new chapters.

Alex travelled slowly, unable to move through the woods’ thick foliage at anything approaching a decent speed without leaving a trail a blind man could follow. He tried running up a larger tree to get a better look at his surroundings the same way he’d scaled skyscrapers back in Manhattan only once. Needless to say, the forest was down one tree.

Eventually he found a road. Well, road was perhaps too generous a term to describe the narrow dirt trail traversing the woodlands, but it was better than nothing. He sped up to a jog, impressive not in speed but in its tirelessness, and continued on for a time. He did not know how long it had been since he’d awakened to the forest, but the moon was still high whenever he glimpsed it behind its veil of gently waving leaves.

He passed no fellow travelers. There was more life than he’d seen in the deep forest, the occasional squirrel or small bird glanced amongst the trees, but there was still very little. It wasn’t until he reached the forest’s edge, hulking ancient oaks long replaced by their more sprightly juniors, that he caught his first glimpse of civilization.

It was a tiny little town, barely more than a cluster of red roofed houses, a chapel, and a large barn. In the pale moonlight it was difficult to make out the contents of the farther fields, but the one bordering the path was burgeoning with ripe orange pumpkins.

It was an idyllic sort of place to which the term ‘pretty as a postcard’ fit so well one could believe it was right out of one, but the longer he looked the more on edge Alex felt. The town simply _felt_ safe, and that was not something he was in the habit of feeling. Certainly not when he also felt that he was being watched.

Whipping around, Alex scanned the tree line. His eyes changed, components shifting until they more closely resembled hollowed pits than simple human organs, his vision shifting with them until it settled into the shades of the thermal spectrum. A sparrow, formerly a dull grey among greys under the dim light of moon, lit up with yellow-red fire against the cool purples of the tree branches around it.

Searching the tree line Alex found a few more birds and small animals, but no hidden watcher. Scanning the pumpkin patch itself proved equally fruitless, although the silhouette of what was perhaps a large scarecrow did catch his attention for a moment.

Returning his eyes to a more human form, Alex took another glance at the town, then started towards it. At the very least someone there might have a phone he could borrow. He didn’t get more than a couple steps, however, before he put his foot right through a stray pumpkin.

There is no dignified way to remove the clinging guts of a wayward squash from one’s foot, so Alex settled for a strong stomp and a hopping foot shake to remove the offending plant matter.

The distraction, minor as it was, did occupy him enough that he missed a brief twitch of movement among the vines. In an instant he was dangling suspended by his ankle, gripped by something thin but surprisingly strong.

Shifting the flesh and bone of his arms as smoothly as most would flex a muscle, Alex readied his newly grown claws. A massive shape, the former presumed scarecrow, moved into his field of vision.

It was far bigger up close, an orange fabric head with a jack-o’-lantern grin looming a good two stories above him. A mass of green tendrils supported it from below, the same sort as the one wrapped firmly around his ankle. How something that big had snuck up on him he had no idea.

“Well …” a booming voice began, but Alex gave it no chance to finish.

Severing the tendril holding him with a swipe and twisting catlike midair, Alex landed on his feet. With inhuman strength he pounced, striking at the center of the creature before him. The strike landed true, but under his claws neither flesh nor bone parted. Instead green vines and ribbons cut cleanly only to be replaced by dozens of their fellows. In a moment he was once again strung up by his ankles, this time thoroughly cocooned so tight he could hardly breathe.

“As I was saying,” the voice continued, “You are trespassing on private property, and that simply needs to be punished.”

* * *

As it turned out, the punishment for trespassing, destruction of property (one pumpkin, about 30 square feet of farmland, and a fence), disturbing the peace, assault of an elected official (the magistrate of the Pottsfield Chamber of Commerce), and murder (just kidding), was three days of manual labor.

Alex received this sentence bound in the ribbon tendrils of the aforementioned magistrate, shocked into compliance by the sheer surreality of the situation.

Observing was a group of local citizens, all covered head to foot in pumpkins, corn husks, straw, and miscellaneous vegetables in addition to simple hats, scarves, and dresses. Though their faces were hidden by the painted expressions and shadowed carvings of their pumpkin headwear, Alex had the distinct impression they were all staring straight at him.

“Now due to the violent nature of their crimes,” the magistrate continued, a slight tilt of his head emphasizing the jagged tear in the fabric under his left eye, “A warden must be appointed to supervise. Does anyone volunteer?”

A man stepped forward from the crowd, tipping his corn cob bedecked hat before speaking.

“I’ll watch ‘em Enoch, could always use a helping hand with the fields anyway.” His painted gaze turned to Alex, and the straight line of his carved mouth looked stern. “You got any experience with fieldwork, troublemaker?”

A memory not his own _/the brush of cornsilk on skin as husks were peeled and discarded by the practiced work of calloused fingers/_ surfaced and on reflex Alex nodded.

“Splendid,” his captor said, and Alex felt himself being gently lowered to the ground. Something metallic clicked shut around his ankle, and with its placement the tendrils restraining him withdrew. He looked down. There was a literal ball and chain clamped to his foot, almost comically large lock included.

“Now why don’t you give our guest here the grand tour Mister Peters, while we here move on to the next item on the docket. Yes Miss Elizabelle, we will be regarding the library budget later today, but as I was saying, first we must discuss what will be done about …”

The towering creature having clearly dismissed them, Alex was firmly led out of the barn by Peters and into the streets of Pottsfield. The door closed behind them, shutting out the chatter of the town meeting and leaving him alone with his minder in the dim predawn light.

Finally free of the baffled daze in which Enoch had left him, Alex quickly evaluated his current situation. He was restrained by a device he could crush in an instant and guarded by a pumpkin cultist he could easily overpower. He was unsure of the extent of the Enoch creature’s senses, but while distracted in the barn Alex figured he could probably make it to the woods uncaught if he ran full tilt. That would inevitably create even greater property damage for the small town, but Alex really couldn’t bring himself to care all that much.

He could even take the farmer, consume him mind and body and take the knowledge of where he was and how to get home straight from the man’s pumpkin clad skull.

His body rippled at the thought, short red and black tendrils briefly extending hungrily from his body at the prospect of warm flesh in which to burrow, but Alex squelched the urge. He was a monster, but these strange people didn’t truly mean him any harm. And even if it got him home to her faster, Dana would surely disapprove.

Unaware of his captive’s predatory ponderings, Peters led on.

“Now don’t get to thinkin we’ll be coddling you outsider, but with how long you’ll be working here we’ll provide food and water for ya. You can sleep nights in the barn, but only after you’ve finished all your tasks for the day. First off, though, you’ll be fixing up that fence.”

He pointed, and Alex saw that they had reached the site of his extended scuffle with Enoch. Huge furrows of dirt were torn through the ground, smashed pumpkins and shredded vines littering the battlefield. The fence bordering the path was in absolute ruin, a casualty of Alex’s attempt to simply smash Enoch like the piñata he resembled against its edges. Obviously, that hadn’t gone as planned.

Alex still bet he would have won if he’d kept fighting, but once it became clear that the strange creature wasn’t actually trying to hurt him, Alex had decided to simply play along. To his best knowledge Blackwatch did not employ any giant pumpkins, so it had seemed a risk worth taking. He could escape any time he wanted, and had a feeling he was a long way from home. The trial had certainly been a surprise.

Still, there was clearly more going on in this little town than met the eye.

Under Peters’ unwavering supervision, Alex began the work of mending the fence. He could escape, but now that he thought about it he wasn’t sure he wanted to. This was the only town he’d come across in a whole night of searching, and with no knowledge of the area there was no telling when or if he’d find the next one. There had to be a map or a phone somewhere in this odd town, or at least someone willing to tell him how to get to a real city.

Besides, he thought, easily lifting a heavy beam, it was strangely refreshing to simply be in a place so different from Manhattan. Pottsfield was peaceful. It was nice here.

* * *

Alex had seen a lot of weird shit in his short life. He’d lived through (and technically started) a real-life zombie apocalypse, stolen a tank to give a ride to his former self’s former girlfriend, and once spotted of member of notorious Blackwatch helping an old lady cross the street. She’d been an amoral research geneticist with less regard for human life than the trooper escorting her, but they’d made an odd couple nonetheless.

Pottsfield, however, was new.

For a normal human the task of digging up the broken fence posts and removing the snapped beams of the ruined fence would have been half a day’s work at least. Alex was not human, and the splintered wood weighed close to nothing for a being that regularly tossed tanks at helicopters. It took him an hour, and at least half that time was spent pretending to struggle with the well buried posts.

If Peters was impressed he didn’t show it. Instead he immediately set Alex back to work, first gathering the intact pumpkins from the ruined plot, then clearing out the unsalvageable ones and miscellaneous debris.

Among that debris were a respectable number of green ribbons, perhaps the most incriminating casualty of the brief skirmish between himself and Enoch. In open defiance of Peters’ disapproving gaze, Alex took the time to tease one apart by its split end. Rough, natural fibers separated without much trouble, leaving him with nothing but a mess of green thread and even more questions. It was a perfectly ordinary cloth ribbon, and yet only a few hours ago it had been capable of lifting his considerable mass by its lonesome.

Slowly the sun rose, burning away the soft shades of dawn with the harsh glare of midmorning. It was uncomfortably hot, but Alex didn’t mind much. Peters, ever unceasing in his vigil, didn’t seem to either.

When he heard the low rumble of an approaching cart Alex looked up, only to stare in bewilderment as yet another improbable oddity approached. Two turkeys, each as tall as a man, strained in harness against the weight of their burden. In the driver’s seat a large black cat urged them on with the occasional flick of the reins. Piled in the back were wooden posts, beams, and a few metal tools; everything needed to rebuild the broken stretch of fence.

As the cart rolled to a halt Peters tipped his hat in greeting to the driver, receiving a curt meow in return.

“Thank you much Enoch,” he said, “I was starting to think that committee was holding you hostage back there.” The cat purred, and Peters turned back to Alex.

“Now shift those out of the cart and put the good pumpkins in. No good in letting ‘em sit and spoil.”

Alex obeyed, and while the draft turkeys shifted uneasily in their traces as he drew near the cat ignored him entirely. Once Peters finished talking its posture had changed, shifting from the upright pose it had driven the turkeys in to a more natural sprawl on the seat of the cart.

“So,” Alex began, fishing for more information, “Enoch’s the maypole with the pumpkin head, right?”

Peters, who stood motionless as Alex unloaded the cart, simply replied, “Yeah, that’s him.”

“And the cat is also Enoch?”

Peters rotated his head to look at the cat in question. It was at that moment thoroughly licking itself.

“Sometimes, but not right now. He’s probably back at the meeting, busy time of year with the harvest coming up and all.”

Alex pondered this for a minute as he worked, trying to piece together some sort of explanation that fit. Changing forms for the sake of convenience was, after all, something he was intimately familiar with. How Enoch could accomplish the same was another story.

On a hunch, Alex reached out with his most tenuous of senses. The Infected hivemind had mostly collapsed since he’d consumed Elizabeth Greene, but his connection to the remnants of Redlight’s collective madness still had its uses.

Even through red-tinted vision, however, the cat came up clean. It occurred to Alex that he hadn’t felt so much as a hint of Infection since he'd found himself in the forest.

“Has he lived here long?” Alex asked, turning to check Peters. The farmer appeared clean as well, so he let his vision slip back to the world of light and color. As blue returned to the sky he was struck by the strangest impression that he felt colder than the moment before.

Peters snorted. “Long? There wouldn’t be a Pottsfield without him. I can’t say I know of anyone been around longer.”

“And what about you?”

At this Peters looked down for a moment, mulling over the question.

“I can’t say I know exactly,” said Peters finally, “But it’s been a good while, at least a dozen years. Pottsfield’s a nice place.” He looked back up, painted gaze fixed unerringly upon Alex’s own. “Gonna stick around once your sentence is served? You do pretty good work for an interloper, son, though I never did catch your name.”

Unloading the last of the fence materials and starting on loading the pumpkins, Alex considered. Should he say he was Dr. Alexander J. Mercer, Ph.D. in genetics? DX-1118 C? Blacklight? Zeus? Germ? Killer, monster, terrorist? Any of the hundreds of names floating in his head, whispers bleeding into his own thoughts till he couldn’t tell the difference and screaming as he died at his own hands over and over and …

Probably best to keep it simple.

“Alex,” he said, “And I’m just passing through.”

“Alex,” Peters repeated, “Well, if I’m to call you that then you better call me John.”

The farmer offered his straw covered hand and Alex shook it carefully. The straw covered it so completely there wasn’t any skin contact at all, though it did feel awful boney.

“It’s nice to meet you proper, Alex,” John Peters said, and though he didn’t reply Alex couldn’t help but feel the sentiment as well.

Alex finished loading the cart, and a few minutes later Enoch returned to the cat. With a jaunty wave goodbye he drove back towards town, while Alex and John started on rebuilding the fence. They didn’t talk, but somehow Alex felt the silence was friendlier than before.

Pottsfield was definitely the strangest place he’d ever been.

* * *

The rest of the day passed quickly. With the fence finished Peters handed Alex off to a new minder, a pattern that continued as the day wore on. He fixed leaky roofs, harvested corn, glared draft turkeys into submission, and even acted as a temporary scarecrow keeping the red eyed crows with a talent for reproducing sounds of human suffering from the crops for an eventful four hours. It was tedious work for a being more accustomed to racing atop city skylines than staring threateningly at birds, but the strange peace he felt in Pottsfield made it just bearable.

His final task of the day was repainting the shutters of one Miss Lulilly. Unlike her fellow townsfolk, most of whom preferred to simply stare in silence as he worked, Miss Lulilly made a point to greet him as ‘Mister Alex’ and made rapid conversation about what must have been every snatch of small town gossip from the course of the last year.

Most of it went right over Alex’s head, but by drawing upon his meager set of social skills he managed to nod and mutter at what seemed appropriate intervals. He did take note, however, that no piece of technology more advanced than an oil lamp came up at all. It was certainly odd, but even a vegetable clad cult of Luddites wouldn’t explain the existence of the creature that led them. Alex still wasn’t sure what exactly was going on here, but he was pretty sure who he’d be going to for answers.

By the time he finished the shutters it was nearly dusk, and Miss Lulilly gladly took the responsibility of leading him to the town barn where he’d spend the night.

“Now don’t you worry, dear, the barn should be nice and warm with the weather we’re having. Enoch spends most nights there, so it should be plenty safe too.” Alex glanced up at the name, and Miss Lulilly patted his shoulder reassuringly before continuing, “Oh don’t you mind Enoch either, he’s just worried for us is all. Terrible business with the last stranger to come around, caused the worst sort of ruckus. Even stole an old keepsake of Enoch’s when he ran off, some trinket to remember a friend by. Terrible, terrible business.”

They walked in silence the rest of the way to the barn. Upon reaching its heavy doors Miss Lulilly knocked daintily twice, then waited. The doors creaked about halfway open and she motioned for him to enter. He took a last glance at the red curve of her painted smile and the small wave she gave him, then the doors were shut tight.

With the doors closed it was terribly dark, the only light a faint flickering amongst the upper rafters of the barn. To compensate his eyes changed, rods replacing cones and a catlike reflective membrane growing to make the most of the dim light. Pale blue eyes glowing faintly, Alex confirmed the location of his quarry. Now that he could see them, the ribbons hanging from above were a dead giveaway.

For half a second he tensed, red black tendrils licking up his legs and muscles shifting, then launched upwards just high enough to land with deliberate care upon the beam above. It creaked dangerously in protest, but held. By all accounts of physics a being of his mass landing should have cracked it in two, but he didn’t especially want to be held responsible for even more property damage, so it didn’t.

No sooner than he’d assured that footing was it immediately upset. A single green ribbon wrapped along the beam reared up, and Alex nearly jumped away on reflex. Moving slow, clearly not seeking to startle him again, it gently tapped his foot. It tapped again, still gentle but with more force than it should have been capable, then withdrew completely.

With the distinct impression he was being beckoned, Alex followed.

The beam and several of its fellows ended in a large hayloft faintly lit by a hanging oil lantern, and upon its boards rested the head of Enoch. The bright orange fabric was unmarred now, no doubt repaired by his faithful citizens, but Alex doubted the tear had been forgotten. Or forgiven.

The green ribbons were everywhere, stretched along rafters, curling complex spirals through the air, and even simply hanging down till the longest brushed the wooden floor below. Enoch filled the barn like a king lounged upon his throne, and all around him the faint scent of burnt sugar and that damn sense of peace that saturated the town clung like a miasma.

Enoch shifted at Alex's approach, massive head turning to look at him. Alex shifted as well, adjusting his eyes again for better vision in the light. On a whim he kept the reflective membrane. Maybe it was a bit vain, but he liked the way people startled at the glow from beneath the darkness of his hood. Maybe this Enoch would be similarly unsettled.

“Well, now if it isn’t the talk of the town. Mister Alex, was it?” Enoch drawled, pale grin stretched wide across his fixed features. “Is there something you need?”

Alex frowned, but replied bluntly. “It’s just Alex, and I have some questions.”

“Oh?” A single ribbon unfurled lazily in the space between them. “Then what would you like to know?”

“What are you?” Alex asked with the precise subtlety of a hammerfist to the face.

There was a beat of silence, followed by a chuckle deep enough to feel in his bones.

“Well then,” said Enoch finally, “It seems we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, so to speak. I suppose I never did introduce myself properly. I am Enoch, magistrate of the Pottsfield Chamber of Com-”

“No,” Alex cut in impatiently, “Not who are you, what are you? Maypoles don’t move on their own.”

“Neither do men grow claws, yet here we are.” Enoch’s sewn smile remained unchanged, but there was a tightness to the expression that hadn’t been there before. “Tell me, how would you answer if asked the same question?”

Alex hesitated. That was a fair point, but it also wasn’t something he was willing to share. As both a fugitive and abomination of science telling people the details of his ‘condition’ had never ended well. No one liked to learn they were talking to a dead man.

Probably best to keep it simple.

“I’m something you don't want as an enemy.”

“Really?” said Enoch, a touch of amusement to his tone that made Alex didn't appreciate. “And why would we be enemies?”

“You attacked me,” Alex said flatly.

“I arrested you,” Enoch corrected, “And if what I’ve heard from my citizens is true you’ve been doing quite well since then. You made a rather good impression on Mister Peters. You know, the farmer.”

“Yes, I know,” snapped Alex. He wanted to pace, but perched on the beam it wasn’t an option. He wanted to stop talking, to simply take the information he wanted straight from the source, but he had a feeling that wasn’t an option either. Whatever Enoch was, it didn’t seem like something of flesh and blood.

“You still haven't answered my question,” Alex continued, “There’s something wrong with this whole town, it’s too ... it feels …” He trailed off, trying to pin down the right words. “It’s nice here,” he said finally, thoughts clicking together like puzzle pieces. “You’re doing something to this town, to its people. Controlling them. Hurting them. This is all some twisted experiment.”

Because that was the only thing that made sense, really. A small town in the middle of nowhere with strange people and a clearly inhuman leader rang plenty of alarm bells all by itself, but Alex’s spontaneous appearance in walking distance of the place cinched it.

It was nice in Pottsfield. It had been nice once in Hope, too.

Enoch pulled himself higher, looming over Alex and head tilted so his sewn smile became a frown.

“Now I was pretty clear the first time, Mister Alex, but if you insist I will repeat myself. I am Enoch, lord of Pottsfield, and all I do is for my citizens. It is my duty to care for them, and for you, a trespasser, to stand here and accuse me of otherwise … do not misunderstand, if you had greeted one of them so violently your sentence would have been rather more final.”

The ribbon tendrils were writhing now, moving more like angry serpents than strips of cloth, but Alex wasn’t backing down.

Someone had got the drop on him, that was clear, but they’d made the mistake of trying to control him. It wasn’t Blackwatch, they knew him well enough to just kill him if they ever got the chance, but someone wanted him to play along with this strange experiment. He didn’t know what sort it was, maybe advanced robotics and combat AI if Enoch was anything to go by, maybe some sort of brainwashing program with the citizens, but he was more than happy to wreck it.

“I’ll ask you one more time,” he said, arms replaced by black chitin and wicked claws, red and black tendrils flickering across his form. “What are you?”

There was a beat, and for a moment it seemed Enoch had simply not responded, but then Alex felt it. It was that same feeling, the sense of safety and peace he’d noted ever since entering the town, but far stronger than before. It was everywhere and nowhere, and every cell in his body was screaming it was _wrong_.

Alex adapted on the fly, sensory organs growing and changing myriad configurations to find the feeling’s source, its meaning, anything at all to tell him what the hell was going on, but nothing worked. He stopped breathing, hoping maybe it was something in the air, but to no effect.

Desperate, Alex reached for the hivemind. There were no Infected here to answer, of course, but before he could withdraw completely and pursue a more manual approach to destroying the feeling’s likely source, something _other_ eclipsed it entirely.

Feelings not his own coursed through him, _peace/rest/satisfaction_ overwhelming him. The emotion triggered the stolen memories within him in turn, and

_/the lake was so beautiful, why couldn’t he sit here forev/_

he couldn’t

_/just a lazy day at home sitting on the front porch, waving at passing neighbors until the sun set in a gl/_

stop

_/leaned down to kiss the child goodbye, smiling as they ran for the bus sto/_

them.

He didn’t know how long it lasted, kept from falling to the floor far below only by the cloud of ribbons supporting him on either side, but even when the onslaught of memories began to subside he could hardly move. He should have been frightened, angry, furious at how helpless he was, but he couldn’t manage anything more than a flicker of concern as he was lifted bodily and gently deposited in the hayloft.

Orange fabric floated into his field of vision, and blinking away the peace of an old man watching his grandchildren play he managed to recognize Enoch.

“Well, now that was interesting. You sure you’re not from around these parts, Alex? You certainly could blend in.” Unable to muster the will to turn away, Alex watched as the green left eye of the creature was for an instant pulled concave into its frame, then smoothed flat. Was that a wink? “Get some rest, you’ll need it for tomorrow.”

Once Enoch left Alex lay there for a few minutes more. Then he slept.


	2. Propagation - 2.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna start posting these in smaller chunks to make it easier to update. I've got a few sections past this one ready so there should be at least an update or two before I disappear again. Thank you so much for your comments, they've really inspired me to keep this going! There have been like four different versions of this scene, but I think I finally found one I like.

Alex woke up.

It was not abrupt, no shock to wakefulness from the nightmarish mishmash of memory his dreams usually entailed. Normally he avoided sleep entirely for that reason, but tonight his rest had been dreamless.

The first thing he noticed was the smell, hay dust, spice, pumpkins, and molasses, then the prickle of straw against his jacket.

His eyes opened to a musty darkness, the black lantern above unlit but the open doors of the barn letting in the dim pre-dawn light.

He sat up, stretched out of other people’s habit, and he remembered.

The next instant he was on his feet.

He felt… fine. Nothing hurt, and a quick chitinous shuffle through his forms proved they all still worked. There was no parasite, no chemical weapon festering from within, no bomb planted while he’d been vulnerable. He felt fine. In fact, he could go so far as to say he felt… nice.

Alex wondered fuzzily if this was just what a good night’s sleep felt like, but as memories flickered forward painlessly to compare a much greater difference occurred to him.

The constant chorus in his head, screams that had haunted him since that very first soldier in the alleyway, had quieted to a low murmur.

He was used to pain. Relief felt terribly strange.

Alex began to pace.

He felt angry, but knew he should feel angrier. He’d been made an absolute fool of, knocked out by an oversized piñata with a god complex. An entire government agency trying its very hardest had never managed as much, at least not for so long. It had to be a trap, a weapons test, another twisted branch of yet another twisted conspiracy. He should cut his losses while he still could, snag one of Enoch’s little minions on the way out of town to settle his curiosity, and find a way home. It’s what he should have done from the start, and yet …

If Enoch wanted to hurt him, he’d already had the perfect opportunity. And Alex had woken up, alone and unharmed.

It had all seemed so clear the night before. In the light of dawn, with the voices in his head quieter than they’d ever been, he couldn’t help but consider new possibilities.

“Knock knock,” said Enoch, voice booming from below, “It’s time we had a little chat.”

Alex snapped to attention. A massive shadow loomed through the open barn doors, but there was no sign of the orange and green maypole. At its source sat the black cat instead, dwarfed by its own shadow and tail curled like a question mark.

“Mind if I come up?” Enoch asked.

Alex growled.

“So is that a no?” The cat’s head tilted. “I assumed you’d want to keep this conversation private, but if you’d rather we shout back and forth so half the town can hear-”

Alex pounced.

It only took one hand to grab the cat, the other to slam shut the doors. It didn’t struggle, hanging loose from his grasp on its scruff. Slowly Alex lifted it to his face, and in the sudden darkness he could see his own faintly glowing eyes reflected in the cat’s black pupils.

“You wanna talk? Then talk. What did you do to me?”

The cat didn’t smile, cats can’t, but Alex could feel Enoch doing it. The massive presence, the scent of molasses and strange sense of peace were no less powerful for being housed in the small animal.

“That? Well I’d think it would be obvious. You did ask, afterall.”

Alex narrowed his eyes. “Pretend it isn’t obvious. Explain.”

Enoch chuckled. “Well, you are young, so perhaps it isn’t. I introduced myself properly is all, just like you asked me to. Thought it might lower the tension a touch, but I wasn’t expecting you to throw in as well. An entity could take it the wrong way, getting handsy like that right from go.”

“What?”

“I’ll admit it's bold,” Enoch continued, tail twitching slowly as he talked, “And I’m flattered of course, but if you’ve hit your first century yet I’ll eat my ribbons. It’d be one thing if you had a proper domain of your own, but as it is … well that just wouldn’t be right.”

“I …” Alex didn’t know what to say to that. “You’re saying that feeling all through town, that isn’t just a chemical you’re spraying or a weird pheromone. That is literally you. You’re _peace/rest/satisfaction_.”

“Among other things,” purred Enoch.

Alex dropped him.

The government designed killer robot theory had been a bit of a stretch, but this was officially out of his area of expertise.

He remembered his reach for the hivemind, remembered the _other_ he’d found instead, _/peace/Autumn/soil/dark/rest/harvest/judgement/grief/satisfaction/_ eclipsing his senses. His stolen memories shivered just at the thought, but much to his relief reacted no further.

Oh.

Enoch’s ramblings suddenly made a bit more sense.

“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” said Enoch, perched now atop a nearby barrel, “I’ve certainly done worse in my day. There was this one time, and I swear by the seasons it wasn’t on purpose, but my ribbons got so tangled in his antlers we had to cut them off! The ribbons of course, not his antlers, that would be a crime punishable by far more than a few hours of community service.”

Enoch’s cat skin still couldn’t smile, but Alex could feel the smile slip. For a moment he simply stared, black eyes reflecting back Alex’s softly glowing ones.

“Anyway,” he said finally, “I'm glad that’s settled. No hard feelings. Why don’t you head on out, see what’s planned for today? I have it on good authority it should be something special.”

Enoch winked, a far more familiar gesture on a cat than a maypole, but still an unusual one.

“Okay,” said Alex. He was trying to remember if anyone else had ever winked at him (past him didn’t count, and certainly not Karen). Then he opened the barn door, and stepped into the light.

Outside the barn, Pottsfield was bustling with activity despite the early hour. Vegetable clad citizens rushed to and fro, many carrying the very produce that most prominently adorned them. In the back of his mind the memory of an old argument a Gentec biologist had had over the classification of pumpkins as fruit, not vegetables, flickered forward, but Alex pushed it away. He didn’t need to get buried in botany trivia.

Amongst the hubbub was Enoch, towering over the crowd and enthusiastically gesturing with his ribbons to orchestrate the surrounding chaos. Alex could glimpse something behind him, but between Enoch’s bulk and the crowd he couldn’t make out what it was. Wondering idly if Enoch had been multitasking through their whole ‘little chat’, Alex went up for a better look.

Up close the center of attention was clear. A wagon, already filled with numerous pumpkins, corn, and miscellaneous produce, was being loaded up. Was it heading to a farmers’ market or something?

“There you are, Alex. Finally up?”

Peters emerged from the crowd, a sturdier looking hat on, a couple small pumpkins in his arms, and a plate of pie in his hand. He handed the pie to Alex, who took it bemusedly.

“Would’ve woken you myself earlier, but Enoch said you needed the rest.” He shrugged. “Anyway, after you finish breakfast you can help load up the wagon. We’ve got a long way to travel and it's best we start early.”

At that Alex blinked in surprise.

“We?”

He hadn’t considered they’d want to bring him, the dangerous criminal, along for the ride.

He risked a glance at Enoch, and even with his head turned away so Alex couldn’t see the eyes he still _felt_ the wink. Quickly, he looked back at Peters.

“Yeah, well you aren’t from ‘round here so you wouldn’t know, but the woods have been awful lively lately. There’s wild animals, bandits; a couple wolves even went at the turkeys a while back. Enoch does his best, but those woods aren’t his. The only business that’s his is what comes creepin’ out of ‘em. Case in point,” he said, giving Alex a pointed glance. “Anyway, we could use someone a bit intimidating on the trip to scare off trouble. You fit the bill.”

As a living weapon resembling a nearly six foot tall man wearing a leather jacket over a perpetually raised hoodie, Alex agreed with that assessment. It was everything else that didn’t make sense.

“And what if I don’t want to come back?” he asked, glancing again at Enoch from the corner of his eye. Was this some sort of test?

Peters shrugged.

“I asked Enoch the same thing. He said it wasn’t a problem. You’ll come back. Everyone comes back eventually.”

At that Peters left, presumably to load up more pumpkins, leaving Alex rather confused behind him. Unsure of what to do with this information, Alex looked down at the plate of pie he still had in hand.

It didn’t have any answers, but as normal food went it looked pretty good. A memory flickered forward, and for once it was one of his. He remembered the last time he’d eaten, his sister guilting him into sharing a looted MRE with her. It hadn’t tasted much of anything, but the excuse to spend time safe and together had been more than worth it. It was a good memory, his own memory. He didn’t have a lot of those.

Normally he didn’t bother with taste buds, but it couldn’t hurt to form them for a moment.

He ate the pie.

It tasted like home.


	3. Propagation - 2.2

As it turned out, Alex spent most of the trip walking. He didn’t mind walking, it didn’t tire him and had he ridden the wagon with the others it might have never left Pottsfield. The draft turkeys were strong birds, but not that strong.

In the wagon rode the two Pottsfielders, Peters and a straw haired (literally of course) woman who’d politely introduced herself as Miss Clara Deen. As secretary of the Pottsfield Chamber of Commerce and one of the few citizens willing to socialize with outsiders for extended periods, she was the natural leader of their current expedition. To Alex’s puzzlement she wore a short veil over her face once they left town, hiding her actual facial features beneath a second all-concealing layer. Alex didn’t ask.

As they left town, thick woods swallowing the road behind them, there was a moment when the Pottsfielders shivered in unison. Following behind, a few steps later Alex felt the same chill. Curious, he stopped and took one deliberate step back. Instantly he felt just a touch warmer, a bit safer, and knew what he had found. It was the boundary. Another step forward, and Pottsfield was behind him again.

Peters manned the reins, hollow eyed vegetable gaze aimed unerringly ahead. He was almost completely silent, only speaking when he needed Alex to do something for him. The road was rough, and more than once Alex earned his keep dragging fallen trees off the path. He didn’t bother hiding his strength now; the Pottsfielders were apparently used to much weirder. Still, in contrast to their quiet comradery the day before, today the farmer seemed tense. Alex wasn’t the best at reading people even when they weren’t covering their faces with vegetables, but Peters was definitely uncomfortable with something.

Miss Clara, on the other hand, seemed positively cheerful about the whole business. She spent the first hour or so double checking the wagon’s inventory, then went over their itinerary for the trip aloud for Alex’s benefit. Their first stop was to be an old grist mill, owned and operated by the extended Evans family. Once the corn was ground to flour they’d continue towards a large tavern where they were to trade away most of their pumpkins. From there they’d loop back to Pottsfield, maybe stopping at smaller homesteads along the way if there was time, and hopefully by nightfall they’d be back in town again. The mill apparently wasn’t that far from Pottsfield at all, because by the time Miss Clara finished explaining this to Alex it was just coming into sight.

Similar to Pottsfield, the millhouse looked almost like something out of an old painting. Most prominent was the waterwheel turning slowly in the passing stream, but the small connected house was particularly quaint as well.

Of more immediate interest than the architecture, however, were its quickly approaching inhabitants. Perhaps he’d spent too much time in Pottsfield, but Alex had half expected any other people they met to be wearing produce on their heads as well, maybe watermelons or squashes or something. The tide of redheads in dated but clearly non-vegetable clothing was not that.

As the wagon slowed to a stop, redheaded children of all ages swarmed around it. On foot as he was, Alex didn’t stand a chance. The kids were yelling, a dog was barking, and it was all Alex could do not to flinch as they _just kept touching him_ , but fortunately for their sake a stern call to order stopped the mob in its tracks.

“Just what do you think you’re all doing?! Get! Bernard, get the little ones out of the way. And you, Billy, go get your father. We’ve got a mill to run for these nice people. Beatrice, don’t think I don’t see you back there! Come over and help me greet our guests!”

The matronly woman paused for breath, and when the children dispersed only she and a young woman in a blue dress remained. The young woman looked mostly annoyed, but Alex caught her glancing at him and the obvious ball and chain on his ankle with a bit of interest. Alex glared at her, and to her credit she glared right back.

“Why Miss Clara Deen, it’s been a while since you folks came to see us,” said the older woman, helping Clara down from the wagon as she spoke, “How are things up in Pottsfield? Was the trip safe? There’ve been awful dark tales about the woods these days, oh you wouldn’t believe.”

The two women got to talking, and while he listened with one ear Alex didn’t give up on his ongoing glaring match with the younger woman, probably the Beatrice mentioned earlier. Alex caught from the conversation that the other woman was Mrs. Evans, though Miss Clara called her Barbara. When they started talking about crop yields he stopped listening.

After some time, Miss Clara and Mrs. Evans retreated to the house with Beatrice in tow, ending the staring contest as a solid tie. Peters and Alex were left to help the father and other older children of the family by carrying the heavy bags of dried corn. It should have been hard work, so Alex limited himself to one bag at a time. Peters gave him a look, but didn’t call him out on it.

The milling itself was the family’s job, for which they would be paid with a percentage of the product. Peters returned to his seat on the wagon, but Alex lingered by the stream, uncertain of what to do with himself. He was staring into the woods, vaguely entertaining the thought that he’d actually travelled back in time to find himself in such a place, when soft footsteps came up behind him.

He lashed out, shattering something with a sweep of his arm, and turned to find Beatrice staring at him open-mouthed with half a broken mug in her outstretched hand. Shit, he thought, she’s going to start screaming. He was partially correct.

“Cheese and crackers! What the heck was that for!” she yelled, waving the broken mug at him, “I was trying to give you a drink, not murder you!” She paused in her tirade, glancing from the shattered pieces on the grass to his hand. “Jeez, there’s not any of those stuck in you, are there?”

Alex looked at his hand. There were quite a few ceramic shards sticking in it, though they were quickly being removed by small black and red tendrils. He palmed the shards and put his hand in his pocket. People generally didn’t react well to that sort of thing.

“No,” he lied, “I’m fine.” Beatrice looked unconvinced. “Really, you can go away.” She gave him a look, close enough to his sister’s ‘I know you’re lying’ face that he nearly winced, but stood firm. He wasn’t going to be intimidated by a teenager.

“Look,” he said, taking the hand back out of his pocket to show her. The shards were left behind, absorbed through his ‘jacket’ into the mass of his body for later disposal. The hand was a sickly pale color, but unblemished. “I’m sorry about that, you just surprised me.”

Beatrice huffed indignantly, but didn’t berate him further. Instead she started picking up the broken pieces of mug, and a bit to his own surprise Alex began helping her. For several minutes they worked quietly, the sound of falling water and turning gears louder in their silence, until Beatrice finally turned to him and spoke.

“I only really came out here to ask you something,” she said, gingerly depositing another shard into the broken cup, “You’re not from the Unknown, are you?”

He didn’t respond, but she pressed on.

“I mean just look at you,” she said, gesturing to all of him, “You don’t exactly fit in mister ‘I’m going to wear thirty layers of clothing and keep my hood up all the time’. Weird stuff is pretty normal around here, but you’re a different style of weird.”

“Your point?” Alex growled.

“You’re lost, right? No idea how you got here, just realized all of a sudden you weren’t where you should be?”

Alex narrowed his eyes. “How do you know that?”

“Cool it for a second, bud,” said Beatrice, waving an open hand, “I’ve just seen this sort of mess before. How long were you wandering before you ticked off the pumpkin patrol?”

“Only a few hours,” Alex admitted, “Does that happen often?”

“Maybe? Most people around here don’t travel much, but they’re really touchy about trespassing so who even knows. Speaking of, I could cut you loose if you want. I’m pretty handy with a bobby pin,” Beatrice offered.

“It’s fine,” said Alex, who’d honestly forgotten about the ankle weight, “How do you know then, if you don’t travel?”

“I never said I don’t, just most people. I’m not most people. Ran into their weird town a while back, did a couple hours of hard time for the outrageous crime of following a couple of dorks into their stupid party. They’re pretty harmless, even if they’re creepy as heck.” Beatrice shrugged. “No offense. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is you’re definitely not from around here, and I’m assuming you don’t want to stick around.”

Alex frowned. “What exactly are you offering?”

“Advice, but first you’ve gotta tell me one thing. Have you ever heard of a town called Lee? Supposed to be in, uh …  Massachusetts I think?”

That got his attention. In all his time here he hadn’t heard a single place name he’d recognized. He’d never heard of a Pottsfield before coming here, and he certainly didn’t know of any real place people just called ‘The Unknown’, but Massachusetts was real. He’d consumed people from Massachusetts; mostly soldiers, some scientists, and a few that had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Memories of forests not so different from the one he was lost in bubbled to the surface, flashes of a small town and train tracks by the river, and immediately he sought answers.

“You know how to get there. Tell me,” he ordered. Beatrice, however, was unimpressed.

“Nope,” she replied, “I’m not telling you nothing unless you do me a favor.”

“A favor,” he repeated. What kind of favor could she possibly want from him? Still, it wasn’t like he hadn’t traded action for information before. At least she probably didn’t want him to ferry around his mortal enemies in a helicopter.

“Alright,” he said, “What favor?”

“If you really find the way out of here, I want to know it too.”

Alex blinked. “But I thought you knew-”

“It’s complicated. I’ve just seen stuff like this before, and I’ll tell you what I do know if you agree.”

“Fine. I can do that.” Alex couldn’t think of a reason not to.

Beatrice offered a hand. “You have to shake on it,” she said gravely.

Alex hesitated. Then slowly, delicately, he took her hand. He gave it a single firm shake. He let go.

Beatrice’s hand fluttered back to her side.

“Jeez, I was just messing with you. It’s not that serious. Anyway, here’s what happened …”

Beatrice proceeded to spin the tale of two brothers lost in the woods, their only guide a helpful bluebird. She had been that bluebird, though how that was possible apparently wasn’t important. They’d been named Greg and Wirt, Wirt being the older of the two. Together they’d adventured around the Unknown for a few days, committed horse theft, defeated a Beast, and successfully went home. Also Wirt had a crush on a girl named Sara. That was it.

“That’s it?” asked Alex disbelievingly, “How do you not know how they left? You were right there.”

“Hey buddy, I had my own issues to deal with,” she replied defensively, “Wirt figured something out, took his brother, and he left. I didn’t follow. I’m not sure I even could’ve followed him. Where it happened wasn’t far from here, just off in the woods a little bit, so it wasn’t like he found a road or something. I live here, I’d know if there was some stupid secret road.”

“Fine,” said Alex, disappointed but not really surprised. Of course there wasn’t an easy answer. “Is there anything else?”

“Oh, uh, there is one thing,” Beatrice said, glancing away, “It’s just that I kinda miss the dorks, so I’ve been writing them letters. Wirt told me where they live but of course there's no way to send mail there. I’ll do it myself if I can, but in case that doesn’t  work out do you think you could deliver one? It’s kind of stupid, you’re just some weirdo whose name I don’t even know, but I don’t know what else to try.” She looked at the ground, then back at him. “So, you’ll do it, right?”

Alex thought about it for a second. It wasn’t a lot to go on, and the info she’d given him had been next to useless, but he still owed her something. It didn’t hurt that she reminded him a little of Dana.

“I’ll try,” he said, “And the name’s not weirdo. It’s Alex.”


	4. Propagation - 2.3

Beatrice gave him the letter. To be more precise she gave him a spare flour sack, tied shut and presumably containing it, with strict instructions not to open it. He didn’t, at least not yet. Alex had broken too many laws in his short existence to balk at tampering with the mail. He’d promised to deliver it, but there was no way he was ignoring a potential source of information. Anyway, it was a neater solution than his usual approach.

He wanted to ask more, to find out if Beatrice knew anything else about Pottsfield or could expand on whatever ‘the Beast’ was, but their meeting was cut short as Mrs. Evans poked her head out the front door. She didn't say anything, but the look she gave her daughter spoke volumes.

“Busted,” Beatrice muttered, “I better go or she’ll start getting sarcastic. Moms, you know?”

She ran off before Alex could answer, not that he had much to contribute on the subject. Greene had preferred cryptic comments the few times they talked.

Milling corn took time, and it was getting close to noon when the task was finally finished. Alex loaded the bags of newly ground flour, minus the miller’s share, into the wagon by himself. Peters remained motionless in his seat through the process, bathed in leaf-dappled sunlight as he blankly regarded the tree line with a worrying intensity. A lot of the Pottsfielders Alex had met tended towards stillness when at rest, but this was a bit extreme.

Setting down the final bag, Alex took a closer look at the farmer. It was possible he was simply sleeping, eyes hidden beneath orange rind, but there was no droop to his posture. Alex considered giving Peters a quick check in thermal, but since he’d been informed once in no uncertain terms that growing gaping heat pits where his eyes should be was ‘nightmare inducing’, it probably wasn’t the best idea with normal people watching.

“Hey,” he said, “Peters. John. Are you okay?”

Peters’ head swiveled at the sound of his name, the rest of his body unmoved by the motion.

“Fine,” he replied, voice rougher than it had been that morning, “A bit chilly, but can’t complain.”

Peters turned back to the trees, and Alex frowned. He didn’t sound fine, and sitting right in the sun he probably shouldn’t be cold. As long as it wasn’t anything serious, though, Alex supposed it wasn’t his problem.

Miss Clara was the last of their party to return, a written receipt of the transaction in hand and pumpkin covered head full of whatever news she’d acquired chatting with Mrs. Evans. As soon as she was seated they were ready to depart.

The whole family gathered to wave them goodbye, and Alex was relieved to find the swarm was a bit more restrained with their parents watching. The dog still barked at him, but it was smart enough to keep its distance.

“Safe travels,” said Mrs. Evans, children echoing with their own chorus of goodbyes around her.

“Good luck, weirdo!” yelled Beatrice, “Don’t die!”

It took several hours of gentle travel to reach the tavern. Noon rolled into early evening, midday warmth giving way to Autumn chill. The road curled and branched like a living thing, but Miss Clara seemed to know its dendritic pathways like the back of her straw covered hand.

The building itself was two stories tall, built with solid stone and mortar walls and a small attached stable. It looked sturdy if nothing else, and Alex immediately began looking for excuses to climb it. He missed the thrill of height and the pull of yawning depth, and while the tavern had nothing on a skyscraper it could at least give him a view that was more than tree trunks.

As the wagon pulled to a stop it occurred to him theirs was the only vehicle in sight. There were no other parked carts or hitched horses, and if not for the light of a low burning lantern out front he probably would have assumed the place was abandoned.

The light, and the face staring from the upper window.

Alex blinked, turned to stare right back, but found no gaze to meet. The window was empty.

His eyes narrowed.

“Alex,” came Clara’s voice from behind him, and his attention turned, “Would you mind giving me a hand?”

Alex gave it, taking hers carefully. It was easier, knowing he'd only touch straw. It took her only a moment to swing down lightly from the wagon’s passenger seat, hand parting from his just as her feet met solid ground below.

“Thank you. Can’t be too careful,” she said, “It doesn’t take much of a fall to crack a pumpkin. It would be a shame to come all this way just to cancel due to shabby dress.”

Alex nodded, not understanding in the slightest what could be so important about wearing vegetables on your head in the first place.

“Let’s head in, then,” she said, gesturing towards the tavern.

Alex hesitated, glancing back at the scarecrow still silhouette staring silently into the trees.

“And Peters?”

Miss Clara followed the glance.

“He’s just feeling a bit under the weather. Homesick I’d expect. Not everyone takes well to travel.”

With that she started towards the door, as if that settled that. 

Alex shook his head, but started forward as well.

He reached the door first, long strides eating up the short walk from the wagon, and gave it a light push. It stuck. He frowned, then tried again with a touch more force. The door slammed open, eliciting a sharp yelp and a muffled thud from within. Oops.

Alex entered, saw the now growling dog crouched behind the door, and elected to pretend the whole thing hadn't happened.

Inside it was nicer than he’d expected, relatively clean and only a little dark despite the lack of windows. There was even a live band in the corner, though he supposed a speaker system wasn't really an option. It was also pretty full, with nearly every table occupied by people that looked to have stepped right out of either a fairytale or a history book.

One, a dark haired woman with a broom paused mid-sweep, was looking right at him.

“Excuse me,” said Clara from the doorway. Alex stepped aside, and the woman's attention shifted. As she took in the raised veil, carved eyes, and painted smile her own lips curved upwards.

“Well, if it isn’t the sweetest pumpkin to walk about on two legs. Go on and take a seat, Secretary. I’ll be over in a jiffy.”

Miss Clara led them to an empty table, the only empty table, and took a seat. Alex hesitated, glancing suspiciously around the crowded room, but slid into the seat across from her.

“I thought you'd been here before,” asked Alex. “She didn't use your name.”

Clara shook her head. “She knows, but well … folk are a bit odd here. Not like Pottsfield. Names are important, but they’re different. She’ll ask you when she comes back, so do you know what to say or would you prefer if I picked something for you?”

Alex frowned. “I know how to introduce myself. I’m not stupid.”

Clara sighed. “No, that’s not what I meant. It’s just-”

“So I checked the back and everything for your usual shipment looks in order.” The woman from before was back, now wielding a pencil and an open book. “It does the Blacksmith good to get such regular work. Was there anything extra you folks want for next time?”

“More nails for sure, we had a bit of an incident with the fence,” Clara said, graciously not glancing at Alex as she said it, “And a new set of griddles. Some of the older ones are just a hair’s width from cracking.”

“Sure thing sugar, I’ll jot that right down. Now tell me,” she said, looking at Alex for the first time since Clara had walked in the door, “You been here before?”

“What? No,” Alex denied. Shit, if she actually recognized him ... “Why?”

For a moment she simply stared, tapping her pencil thoughtfully. Clenched below the table and out of sight, Alex’s hands rippled.

“You know I’m not sure,” she said finally, “You must just have one of those faces. So who are you then?”

“I’m Alex,” he answered, watching her reaction carefully. Nothing. “Alex Mercer,” he expanded, taking the gamble of his full name. Well, his favorite anyway.

She didn’t start screaming. In fact, her only reaction to the name of America’s most wanted bioterrorist was a slight narrowing of her eyes. She looked annoyed.

“That’s swell, but who are you?”

“Alex,” he repeated, glancing at Clara before realizing he'd have no help from that corner. Carved faces weren't much good at providing subtle hints.

“Look,” she said, gesturing around the tavern as she talked, “I'm the Tavern Keeper. She's the Secretary. Over there are the Baker, the Tailor, and the Carpenter. The Midwife, the Butcher, and the Blacksmith are playing cards by the fire and the Toymaker’s in the back there. Who are you?”

“Ah,” said Alex, finally understanding. It wasn’t that he couldn't think of an answer. Three jumped to mind immediately / _ killer, monster, terrorist _ / but there wasn't a one he could really use in casual conversation.

He felt the familiar itch to switch faces, to wear a skin with an easy answer attached and let it do the talking. He was well aware of why the second option fit so well.

It wouldn't really be much of a lie to answer scientist, either, but the thought of stepping even further into the good doctor’s shoes left a bad taste in his mouth. He had some standards.

Perhaps, he thought, the best move would be to refuse the game entirely.

“I'm no one important,” he said finally, “That's all you need to know.”

The Tavern Keeper gave him a blank stare, then turned back to Clara.

“So who’s your friend again?”

“He’s the Hooligan, of course,” she said sweetly, “Isn't it obvious?”

“Oh,” replied the Tavern Keeper, giving Alex another look over, “It is.”

Alex narrowed his eyes. Seriously?

“Well feel free to flag me down when you’re ready. I’ll go tell the Blacksmith. Keep your friend here out of trouble.”

“Of course,” replied Clara. As the Tavern Keeper returned to her sweeping, across the room and out of earshot, she turned back to Alex. “Sorry about that.”

“I’ve been called worse,” he said, crossing his arms. “What was that about?”

“She wouldn’t have dropped it,” Clara explained, “I tried to tell you. Names are important here, and I’d rather not have half the tavern come over and offer suggestions. I gave her an answer she’d be happy with.”

“But hooligan? Really?” He’d definitely been called worse, but it was just so … underwhelming.

“Well, I’m not sure what they call it where you’re from, but around here if a young troublemaker starts picking fights and committing property damage, that’s what we call them.” Clara folded her hands in front of her. “Would you prefer delinquent?”

Alex put his head in his hands. Why did people keep bringing up age? He couldn’t look that young. The original Dr. Mercer had been nearly thirty when he’d kicked it. So what if, in a purely technical sense, his personal length of existence was just reaching three weeks?

Dana was gonna make fun of him so much if she found out. No, when she found out. He had to tell her. Everything. Eventually.

“What do you want?” he asked through his fingers. “You could have just left me outside with Peters. Why am I here?”

Clara cocked her head. “To get to know you, of course. Is it so odd, to want to know your new neighbor?”

“I’m not sticking around,” Alex said flatly. “I’m leaving as soon as things are settled. I need to get home.”

Clara hummed thoughtfully. “Do you know how long trespassers usually stay in Pottsfield? Most sentences aren’t nearly as long as yours, of course, just a few hours of manual labor. It’s my job to keep records about that sort of thing.”

“So what?”

“Most folks don’t finish. They run off first chance they get. Don’t know why, Pottsfield’s a nice place, but that’s just the way it is. Folks that stay tend to have a reason.”

“I’m not joining your cult,” said Alex. “I don’t know what Enoch told you, but-”

“See that’s the thing,” Clara interrupted, voice firm, and Alex was too surprised to object. “You and Enoch. He hasn’t said anything, but it isn't hard to guess. He keeps things to himself sometimes, doesn’t want to worry us, but this is different. I need to know what your intentions are.”

Alex blinked. Him and Enoch? “I’m not … there’s nothing going on.”

“Really?” Alex imagined under the pumpkin an eyebrow raised.

He crossed his arms. “Really. I got lost, I found Pottsfield, I picked a fight. That’s it. There was a … misunderstanding, but we talked it out.” Clara stared. Alex fidgeted. “He said, uh, no hard feelings.”

Clara sighed, but her gaze softened. “Sorry. I know it’s not really my business, but after the last trespasser I had to make sure.”

It was Alex’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “What happened?”

“He called himself the Scholar. Very charming, very polite. Enoch liked him. And then he went and stole poor Mr. Hope’s lantern.”

“Mr. Hope?”

“He was Enoch’s … friend. Used to come by all the time. Didn’t come into town usually, they liked to meet up at the border, but the whole town knew about it. They were very close. Then one day he stopped coming. Enoch won’t talk about it, but I think something happened to him.” She looked up, dark hollow eyes boring into Alex’s. “That cad stole the last reminder Enoch had of him. I’m not letting someone take advantage of him again.”

Alex was taken aback. He’d known Enoch was protective about his followers, but he hadn’t realized it went both ways. He wondered what Clara had planned on doing if she decided he was a threat. Or, he realized, if the Tavern Keeper had recognized him.

“So you think this Scholar came through the tavern?” he asked, “And you thought I might be connected to him?”

Clara shrugged. “Maybe. The folk in the tavern don’t forget people. If they don’t know you then you haven’t been here.”

“I could find him,” Alex offered. This was a problem he knew how to solve. “I’m good at finding people.”

Clara tilted her head. “I thought you needed to get home?”

“Yeah, but …” It wasn't something he could explain, how appealing the prospect was. Not to Clara, anyway. Who knew what kinds of secrets a scholar of this strange place would have, tucked away in his skull. The Pottsfielders were good people. They couldn't possibly approve. “I’m sure it won’t take long.” He pointed towards one of the tavern patrons. “I’ll ask him right now.”

The Toymaker looked up at his approach. “Why if it isn’t the young troublemaker. I hope you don’t mean me any mischief,” he said cheerfully.

“Where’s the Scholar,” Alex asked, straight to the point.

“Looking to improve yourself with knowledge? It’s good to know the Secretary’s been a good influence on you.”

“Sure,” said Alex, “Where is he?”

“Oh, no one knows,” said the Toymaker, a sparkle to his eye. “Not since he came through here a while back, asking all sorts of questions.”

Alex nodded approvingly. This scholar was sounding like a better and better target.

“And what were the questions?”

The Toymaker glanced around surreptitiously, then leaned in close. That he spoke next in a stage whisper rather ruined the attempt at stealth. “Ones about secret things, lost things. Even wanted to know about … the Beast.”

“The Beast!” The cry rose from the crowd like a chorus.

“The Beast?” Alex echoed. Beatrice had mentioned a Beast. Come to think of it, she’d said something about a lantern too. “You know about it?”

“We all know the Beast,” said the Tavern Keeper. The whole tavern was on its feet now, gathered around the Toymaker’s table. She took a deep breath.

Wait, what was the band doing. Was she seriously going to-

“Oh, he lurks out there in the Unknown-”

Several things happened in quick succession. A blood curdling scream split the air, killing the song midverse. Next an explosion, a thunderclap in miniature. There was a solid crunch, a chorus of panicked gobbles, and the quickly dissipating sound of a wagon in motion.

All thoughts of beasts and scholars fled his mind. Alex rushed the door.

He was slowed by the patrons crowded around him, still frozen by the scream, but it didn't take much to shove past them. From the corner of his eye he noted Miss Clara was doing the same, though with a good deal less success.

He slammed the door, throwing his full weight against the hinges, and with a screech of twisting metal it flew open.

Alex skidded to a stop, landing atop the door’s mangled remains. On reflex he scanned the yard for threats, but whatever gunman had let off the shot was long gone. Only a lingering cloud of gunsmoke remained, the stench of sulfur heavy in the air.

The wagon was gone too. Where it had sat lay a crumpled shape, a sad pile of straw and smashed pumpkin.

Alex took one quick step forward, then stopped. His face shifted, eyes melting away and recessed pits growing in their place. He held the change for only a moment, but a moment was long enough.

A soft blue against cool purples, Peters’ body was already cold.

The world narrowed. It made sense again, and for the first time in two days he was absolutely certain of what to do next.

Another scream came from behind him. Clara was in the doorway.

Alex leapt atop the tavern. Ceramic tiles splintered under his feet, falling with a clatter to the ground below, but the roof held. He looked towards the road.

The trees seemed to stretch endlessly, but the road cut the forest like a snake, revealing the occasional open stretch. Somewhere distant a speeding wagon turned the bend.

“John!” cried Clara from below, “Can you hear me?”

Alex took a step into empty air, letting gravity do the work for him. He landed with a solid thud, mere feet from Clara and the body. She'd removed her veil, draping it across the face of the crumpled shape. He didn’t see any blood, but he knew that wasn’t an angle a neck should be at.

“Stay in the tavern,” he said, voice flat as he could manage, “I'll take care of this.”

“But-”

“I’ll find the one who did this.” His voice slipped, sheer murderous intent leaking into the tone. “They'll pay.”

“Listen to me Alex, we need to-”

Alex ran.

He ran till his footsteps tilled the road beneath him, throwing dust in his wake. The lock at his ankle snapped, torn away by the friction.

Alex ran. No, he chased.


End file.
